


lift your hands towards the sky

by peradi



Series: your name is hope schlottman [2]
Category: Jessica Jones (TV), daredevil - Fandom
Genre: F/F, F/M, Face Sitting, Healing Sex, Hospital Sex, MFF threesome, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Threesome, i wanted to write rarepairs and this happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:10:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5544626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peradi/pseuds/peradi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Hope Schlottman. This is your life, and you learn to bask in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lift your hands towards the sky

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know if american hospitals have healthcare assistants. they're a thing in england. forgive me if they're not.
> 
> also ive only watched one episode of daredevil.
> 
> warning: the first installment in this series was a thoughtful exploration of an canon divergence. This is pretty much happy porn.

Your seventh date with Claire Temple ends up with your knees bracketing her face, her tongue squirming up between your lips, alternating long flat licks and pointed nudges at your clit. You grind down, unashamed in the seeking of pleasure -- the harder you press the more she mewls, lapping up your juices like you're a banquet, a golden array just for her, and she grabs your hips, pulling you down further, like she wants to gag on you, drown in you, die from you. Your head lolls back, mouth hanging open, a high and singing cry thrumming from the back of your throat. You've never felt anything so good. Fireworks. Fireworks and embers and shattered glass behind your eyes, dancing brighter and wilder with each push of her tongue. 

"Oh Claire --  _Claire --"_ and you come, you come over and over, one orgasm bleeding into the next, star-shattered and broken and you are weeping, tears livid down your red face. 

There's no whiteness in your world, not anymore. The sky has split asunder. Lightning strikes the ground. 

You feel Claire smirking against your cunt. You haul yourself back, staring down at her in awe. Her mouth is dewy. Her chin is wet. 

She grins up at you, licking her lips, wolf-hungry and gorgeous. 

When you kiss her you taste yourself: bitter salt and that strangeness of  _woman_ that you're still not used to. 

"You're beautiful," you mouth. 

"I know," she says. "So are you."

 

\--

 

She teaches you how to go down on her. 

To start with you're hopeless. You have strong fingers, bruising strength in your jaws -- but this takes delicacy, a gentleness that must be learned. You crook your digits this way and that, fingernails cut short and soft so nothing gets torn. You find her clit, and her lips, and every part of her that demands attention. 

Being with a woman is like being with a cartographer. Every foreign place must be learned. 

It is  _wonderful._

 

_\--_

 

Your name is Hope Schlottman, and you are twenty two years old. 

You are not a student, not yet. You don't have any money. You don't have any idea about the direction of your future.

(In this, you are not so different from the legions of the students like you.)

Your girlfriend -- and isn't that a strange word? _Girlfriend_ \-- gets you a job at the hospital. You're a Healthcare Assistant. Like a nurse, but not quite. You take a lot of blood from patients who range from the adorable to the infuriating. You fuck in the on call room a couple of times (Claire on her knees, your fingers biting into her scalp.)

(Things you have learned: Claire likes to be on her knees.)

(Things you feel vaguely guilty about: you like her on her knees.)

 

\--

 

 

You are a little too old to be mothered. 

This does not mean you do not want to be. 

 

\--

 

You have been dating Claire for four months, fucking her for two, when Jessica puts her foot down and demands that she comes over for dinner. 

You have been living with Jessica and Trish for the last year and a bit. You probably should leave at some point, but you don't want to. There's love here, love that thickens the air into a glorious stew, and there is kindness, and there are people who care for you. 

Your own family wants nothing to do with you. Your grandmothers are dead. Your parents are dead. Your brother hates you. 

(Things you have learned: Killgrave murdered your parents, not you.)

(Things you are learning: parents can come along when you least expect them.)

 

\--

 

Claire's met Jessica and Trish before. They're meant to be bonded by fire and fury, the trauma of shared experience, something like that -- and yet Jessica greets her like a Doberman would greet a burglar, lips curled and eyes hard. 

She's been cooking. She's got a white apron on over her black jeans and t-shirt, but she looks ready to wield her wooden spoon as a weapon. 

"Claire," she says, her voice a shard of flint. 

You want to say  _Jess I'm twenty two, I've been fucking her in every room in the hospital, I'm a little in love_.

You don't. Jessica bristles, thorny and protective, teeth showing and you want to fling yourself into her arms, smother her face with kisses because she is looking after you, looking after you, this girl with a heart big enough to hold the world. 

 

\--

 

Jessica is  _not your mother_.

She's not. Neither's Trish. 

Definitely. 

 

\--

 

"What are your intentions?" says Trish. 

Oh  _dick._

Doesn't help that Claire's three big glasses of wine in. Doesn't help that Claire's used to dealing with sharp-tongued superheroes -- you've not met Matt Murdock, not yet, and the prospect fills you with dread -- anyway. 

None of that helps, because Claire says, "I love her. I'm gonna fuck her right, look after her, keep her safe and go down on her at least twice a day."

Trish chokes. 

Jessica grins around the rim of her scotch glass. "Good," she says. 

 

\--

 

Speaking of going down. 

Claire doesn't mind the interrogation -- you're so guilty that you spend an hour with your head between her thighs. 

"'m sorry about them."

"Glad you've got people looking after you," she says. 

You prop your chin on her stomach. Your smile is sharp and keen, and your head swarms with light and colour. It's never still. It's never empty. 

Words cannot communicate how good this is. 

 

\--

 

 

 

Your meeting with Matt goes a little differently. 

Well. 

Not the first one. That's actually remarkably similiar to Claire's ordeal. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen has a warm smile, and an aura of absolute calm, but you have learned to notice indicators of violence -- even when they are hidden away -- and you can tell by the line of his mouth, the spike of his knuckles, that he would kill for Claire. 

That's okay. So would you. 

You exchange pleasantries, and you drink coffee, and you fail entirely to join in with the normal back-and-forth. The pair of them banter like old lovers do, quick-winged words flittering over your head, and you look sullenly down. Jealousy is a hot copper curl in your stomach.

She rests a hand on your knee. "I love her," she says, calm and low, and your insides leap and twist like hares in May. 

"I guessed," he says. Those little hints of violence are still there, but something in the way he looks at you, head quirked on one side, calms you. 

(Will you always be like this, you wonder, skin tight over quivering bones, anxiety thrumming low in your gut?)

(Will the sight of broad, strong shoulders always frighten you?)

(Will, will, will?)

 

\--

 

So yes. The first meeting isn't too dissimilar from Claire's experiences. 

The second, third and fourth all include Matt bleeding over Claire's sofa. You're learning how to patch up wounds, how to treat the flotsam and jetsam of the city with what Claire keeps in her flat, and so you help out, mopping up red, thinking of the way you plunged porcelain into your throat, yanked aside, opened up the soft wetness of your jugular. 

You think that you and Daredevil are pretty similiar, really. 

The fifth meeting is when things get a little strange. Matt's been beating the shit out of some human traffickers -- they've been returning the favour -- and you're supplying him with anesthetic. 

What this means: you're keeping three glasses topped up with gin. 

It's about two in the morning when you slide into Matt's lap. 

You hold the glass up to his lips. He drinks in slow, shuddering gulps, his eyes fixed at some point over your shoulder. His thumb is at your wrist, feeling the warm burr of your pulse. 

"You're afraid of me," he says. 

"I'm afraid of everything," you say. 

Claire's watching. Her eyes are black and wet in the low light. There's a hunger there.

"You're a martyr," he says. 

"So are you," you point out. "You let yourself get kicked around to save your city."

"You were willing to die to help Jessica kill that bastard. I admire that. And you're good for Claire."

"You weren't," you say flatly. It's not a challenge. Gin softens the edges of your jealousy and lends a clarity to your thoughts. Claire is yours. You are hers. No one will ever break you apart. 

"No," he says. There's sadness there, and guilt throbs soft under your skin, and it's because of this that you kiss him: once, on the temple. 

You hear Claire's breath catch from across the room. 

You look up. She's intent, just as hungry now as she was all those months ago on the night of your seventh date. 

And, just as then, she makes her desire clear. 

"I want you to kiss him," she says. Her fingers trill across the front seam of her jeans. "I want you to help him relax. And Matt? I want you to show her exactly how good you can be. If that's okay?"

Explicit consent is definitely your  _thing_. A smile as bright and sharp as a fluorescent lamp shines across your face. "Yes," you say. "Oh God yes."

"May I touch you?" says Matt, his hands fluttering just above your hips, not making contact, waiting for permission --  _waiting_.

"I want you to fuck me," you say, flushing hard and rosy, and he does not touch you. He wriggles his hips a little, trying to get comfy, and you feel the press of his cock against your thigh. He's hard already, but he is not touching you.

"You're like me," you say. "And I want you to touch me."

Only then, only then, does he let his hands find their mark. 

 

-

 

You guide his hands to your bare tits. That's not necessary: he can probably judge their location by your scent, the song of your heart, but you want to make it clear as water -- that this is okay, permitted, wanted. His palms are rough against your nipples, his fingers biting hard against your flesh. Claire presses up against your back, sucking kiss-shaped gouges into the curve of your neck. 

She dips her fingers inside you, feeling your slickness, seeking your clit, tracing familiar patterns with sure strong motions. Your eyes flutter half-shut and a birdlike cry chimes in the air, and oh wait that's you, that's you making truly embarrassing noises that only get worse when Matt joins in, his fingers wedged up next to Claire's and you're full, full up and gasping, whining  _Claire_ and  _Matt_ and when he enters you -- oh  _God_ \-- 

Your name is Hope Schlottman. Matt's cock is buried inside you, and Claire has her fingers nudged alongside it, wrangling back at forth, rubbing at your clit as his head gets perilously close to your cervix -- Jesus  _christ_ there's cock and there's _cock_ and Murdock is fucking  _excessive_ \--

\-- and your mouth was never this filthy before, and you blame Jessica Jones entirely -- 

And it's wonderful, it's wonderful, you cannot think, you can only whine and and pant out incoherence, especially as Matt scoops you up, smacks you up against Claire's wall, driving into you in earnest --

\-- and Claire snaps protest at him, something about  _hogging my girlfriend_ and between the three of you you find the bed, and there you kiss Claire over and over, slack-mouthed and whimpering. Matt seizes his chance, dives down between Claire's thighs and she cries out, sharp and high as you were. "Christ Matt," she says, splaying her knees open wider and you stamp a last kiss to her mouth before joining him.

She comes until she's shivering and quivering and boneless, slumped on the bed, and that's when you present yourself to Matt, grinning back over your shoulder, cunt running wet. "Go on then," you say, your mouth a hungry and happy shape, and he trails the head of his cock down your folds. 

"You sure?"

"Of course," you say but there's no of course about it, not really, and he asked and that matters more than anything. 

Some people ask. Some people ask, and the ones that don't will die because the world is full to the brim with people who love you. 

He plunges home, fucks into you with hard punched out groans, and Claire recovers enough to kiss you, laughing as you alternate between mewling Matt's name and cursing the absurdity of his cock.

"Why's it so big anyway?" you whine afterwards; you're sore inside, but it's the best kind of soreness in the world. 

He giggles, bites your ear. "Well, we've found one thing I'm better at than Claire."

"Sorry but no," you say, lolling back into Claire's arms. "We can still buy a bigger dick if we want one."

"Yeah, but a dildo doesn't have my dazzling wit."

"It doesn't talk back either."

"Oh hush up and suck me off."

You don't hush up. You do suck him off, however, because you're not heartless. 

 

\--

 

Your name is Hope Schlottman. 

You don't have a family-by-blood anymore. You have two terrifying mothers. You have a girlfriend. 

And now you have a career. Something like it at least. You're going to school, working on your nursing diploma. You want to help people, work in an E.R., maybe go into midwifery -- but you have a sneaking suspicion that you are going to end up bandaging up superheroes you fished out of dumpsters. 

That's not a bad future at all.

 


End file.
